


The Tommyknockers

by sailtheplains



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, language and some suggestive dialog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailtheplains/pseuds/sailtheplains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Notes:</b> Haha, I wrote because of a conversation I had with the lovely katamanda--who I sometimes write with on here. We were talking about a game--and I mentioned the Tommyknockers. I wasn't sure if she had heard of them so I asked her, "Hey, do you know about the Tommyknockers?"</p><p>And she says, "Those pixies that live in mines?"</p><p>And I was like, "Huh?"</p><p>You see, I had never heard of the folklore behind Tommyknockers. I know of them from the Stephen King novel (and movie that I saw when I was seven--and I love Stephen King but that traumatized me for life--I still haven't read that book all the way through because of what I saw in that movie) but they are very, very different from England's Tommyknockers.</p><p>So I thought it would be hilarious to do a little piece--based on a real misunderstanding between an American and an Englishwoman.</p><p>And, y'know, because it's fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tommyknockers

“It’s creaky in here,” said America, looking up at the walls.

He was in an old, old house that had been dug into the side of a hill. He and England had been driving through—on their way to Virginia—when America had seen it from the road.

“Look at that!” he’d called, nearly swerving off the road. “What a cool-looking old house!”

“There’s a sign on it—it’s abandoned,” England informed him, lifting one caterpillar eyebrow.

“Yeah—but—c’mon—let’s go take a look! It’ll be fun!”

England hadn’t bothered to object. America would just nag about it if they passed it. So America had driven his truck off the interstate (Good Lord, these interstates were something else—they were so long and big—just like America’s truck and—and—well. Yes.) and found his way out to the spot. The place was quiet—out this far away from the busy road. It was almost peaceful. And cooler, though that was likely from the churn of dark clouds heading in.

America started to shiver almost as soon as they entered the house. He was biting his lip and twitching and clenching his hands.

“If you’re afraid, why are we in here?”

“I’m not!”

“You so clearly are!”

“I am not!” And America stiffened his lip and England should have _known_ better than to suggest fear—because now America was going to be stubborn and want to _stay_ and make them late to meet France and Canada and he’d have to sleep with England tonight—

\--oh, well, he supposed that wasn’t so bad. But cor, if his feet weren’t icy cold. And he’d always put them on the back of England’s knees.

Anyway, America was saying, “It’s creaky. But. It’s old. So. Yeah.”

England suppressed a smile. “Ghosts or Tommyknockers, I suppose.”

America nearly jumped out of his kin. “Wh-what?! Tommyknockers!?”

England did something of a double-take. “Those aren’t scary, Ameri—“

“Bull _shit_! I _read_ that book! They made everyone go cra—“

“What book?”

“Th-the one where they all-- _The Tommyknockers_!”

“What in the blazes are you on about!”

“By Stephen King! The Tommyknockers are real?!”

He was starting to sound truly frightened—which was something England found both anxious and pleasing (something about co-dependence got him off). America had pressed himself to the wall, shaking a little. “They made everyone crazy and they started killing each other and in the movie—in the movie—the toys killed—“

“America, stop that now! You are ridiculous! Tommyknockers are part of my folklore! They live in mines and knock on walls. What’s going on in your head!”

“They _so_ are not! Have you ever _read_ The Tommyknockers!?”

“Of course not! And you shouldn’t have either, obviously.”

“But Stephen King is one of mine—“

“Are you bloody daft?” England rolled his eyes. “Come on. We’re leaving!”

“But they’ll—they’re Tommyknockers! Haven’t you ever heard the song?”

England was starting to lose his temper. “Of course,” he snapped and he recited, hands folding together almost automatically:

_Late last night and the night before,_  
Tommyknockers, Tommyknockers, knocking at my door.  
I want to go out, don’t know if I can,  
Because I’m so afraid of the Tommyknocker man-- 

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” America was _begging_ him. “Don’t sing it again! It’s even creepier in a British accent!”

“I _beg_ your pardon!” England exclaimed, sounding affronted.

America had his hands clamped over his ears. He was shaking by now, nearly crying.

England sighed. “All right, all right. Come on, you daft fool. Let’s go. We can be to the hotel before nightfall if we leave now.”

America still didn’t move, hands over his ears, trying not to listen to the house creak.

“Oh, for God’s sake—where did I go wrong? Come _on_.” England grabbed America by the arm and hauled him towards the stairs. “You used to know my folklore, you know. They aren’t monsters! They’re sprites that live in mines.”

“Stooop!” America whimpered a little, letting England drag him. “They’ll kill us. I’m going to have nightmares—“

“I told you!”

 

 

America drove well over the speed limit, desperately wanting to reach the hotel in Virginia before night fell. They didn’t. And the darker it got, the more tense he became. England did not like driving in the United States—as the cars and roads were backwards—so he could only watch, hand gripping into the handle on the door.

“America, get ahold of yourself. It was just a silly house!” His knuckles were white.

“Sh-shut up!” The headlights were pale on the road ahead. The sky was churning above them. His grip on the wheel was just as tight as England’s on the bar.

“America—you need to relax. It was just a story. You’re going to crash. Just calm down.” England had been annoyed at first—now he was rather paranoid about them not dying. Thank God it was just them in America’s truck—if France had been in here and spooked America further—he would definitely have crashed already.

“I am relaxed!”

“You are _not_ relaxed!”

“You’re making me not relaxed!” America’s voice had risen to a shill—

_BOOM!_

America screamed, the truck jerked drunkenly on the highway. England jumped and yelped. “God and the Queen, America!”

Lightening flashed and America whimpered, biting his lip.

 

 

Somehow, somehow, they arrived in one piece. Though England had decided long before that America had lost it and it was every Queen for herself. If America crashed, he was going to leave him there—good manners be damned. He’d _told_ him! Told him! America parked haphazardly (though somehow still inside the lines) at the hotel. He was shaking, still clutching the wheel.

England swore and cursed his bad luck (and France, because how often those two went together was uncanny). “All right! America—we’re here. We have to go check in. All right? We can get our things in the morning.”

America’s breathing was coming out in pathetic little gasps. He flinched when thunder rumbled above them. England sighed and grabbed America by his arm. “Come on, you twit.”

England managed to half-lead, half-drag America through the parking lot—until one particularly huge crack of thunder rattled him and he grabbed England up and ran.

“Put me down, you fool!”

He didn’t. Not until they burst into the lobby. He had England around the waist, holding him to his chest. He sniffled, pathetically. Endearingly.

“What the hell--?!” came a voice.

And then a burst of familiar laughter.

 _Oh, damn._ England closed his eyes.

America’s rain-speckled glasses were smeared and obscured by the lights. He sniffled again, looking over. “Fr-France…”

Canada was with him. “What happened? Why are you so frightened?”

England sighed, looking like a patient, if exasperated, man. “Haunted house. Told him it was the Tommyknockers.”

“Tommyknockers?” said France, lifting an eyebrow.

“Oh, geez,” said Canada, rolling his eyes. “Nevermind. God, America—you’re such a scaredy cat. That was just a book!”

“Shut up,” America said, barely above a whisper. He was looking away from them.

England felt a pang of pity, seeing the obvious shame. “America. It’s fine. Just put me down. Please. Now. And we’ll go check in and I’ll make you a cup of tea. All right?”

America didn’t meet his eyes. He lowered England to the floor and followed him, quietly saying, "England, can I--"

"Yes, I'll stay with you."

 

 

France looked at Canada. “What are the Tommyknockers?”

“These things from one of America's writer’s books. People go crazy and kill each other. Really violent. I told him not to read it.”

France chuckled. “Your brother is a piece of work.”

 

In their room, England made America a cup of tea with a spoonful of honey and a half-shot of whiskey. He drank it, quietly. England took a shower and went to Canada’s room to borrow a shirt for himself (blue with a robot on it) and one for America (red with something about ‘eh team’ on it, England couldn’t be bothered to ask what the blazes that was suppose to mean) for the night. England thanked him and went back.

America was sitting on the edge of the bed, stripped except for his boxers. He half-smiled at the shirt and put it on. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“Stop. Let’s just go to sleep.”

“All right.”

When they laid down, America curled up around England and England sighed and allowed it. It wasn’t that bad. It. Well.

America kissed the side of his neck.

England blinked. "Are you--"

America moved up to his ear.

England narrowed his eyes, though he could hardly see anyway. “You _were_ frightened in the lobby.”

“I was,” came a low murmur from the dark. His hands were sliding around him.

England shifted, throat suddenly tight. “I’m only staying with you because you were afraid, you know.” Those disembodied hands traveled along his thigh.

Again, that low voice but this time, England could hear the smile in it. “I know.”

 _I’ve been had._ England moved into him, unable to suppress a grudging smile. “You are an _absolute_ bastard.”

There was a soft chuckle. “I know.”


End file.
